Aftermath's Scythe
by BandGeek58407
Summary: Sequel to What Lies Buried. Just when they thought they had moved on, old enemies return with a bang and threaten everything Riley and Ben hold dear. Assumptions are shattered and normalcy is lost; will their lives join them? On hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

Today seems to be a fitting day to post this. I just got back from my city's tiny little Christmas Parade—and it snowed!—which happens to be the final high school marching band event of my life (teardrop), plus all my college apps and tests are finally done. Huzzah, huzzah, I have free time once more!

And on a completely unrelated note, I was about _this_ close to labeling this a drama, but then I reread the first three chapters and said to myself, "Eh…no. Angst." So yeah. And the POV hasn't changed. Ben's pretty excited to have a mind-reading device strapped to his head again.

**Disclaimer: I wished upon 47 stars. Guess what I still don't own. **

Chapter 1

"_The best prophet of the future is the past." (fortune cookie)_

X

I, Benjamin Franklin Gates, believe that I may have just come up with something to help the current energy "crisis" or whatever they're calling it now. How could it have evaded me all this time, when frustration has simply been oozing from me into the atmosphere along with all the wasted fossil fuels?

We should get rid of traffic jams: that way, the environment _and_ Ben are happy. But alas, no such utopia exists, so I am not so happy.

Craning my neck over the top of the station wagon in front of me, I note how the line of cars, shimmering and wavy from the humidity and engine heat, extends for blocks—maybe even a mile or so. All I did was give a couple guest lectures today at University of Maryland. Does that really warrant this type of punishment? I can hear Abigail now—

"_I told you that you should have taken the metro; there's a stop right outside the campus…"_

Well maybe I wanted to drive, which, in retrospect, makes no sense in my case. Riley was quick to point that out…

"_Ben makes another weird decision," he said with a shrug. "No changing his mind now."_

_Just then Wes shuffled in, eyes glued to one of those rip-off daily calendars. "Uh-oh!" he chuckled, turning it around so we could see what it said. "Uncle Ben's being obdurate!" His statement was a quick and simple formula for silence: clearly none of us had ever heard that word before. "It's on the word-a-day calendar, see?" His slender, tan fingers tapped the definition as a silly grin splashed onto his face. "It means 'inflexible' or…'persistent in wrongdoing.'" _

_Somehow Riley found himself bent over in a fit of brief laughter. "Ahem," he coughed, a hand running through his dark hair. "That could, uh…y'know, in _some_ circumstances, be a pret-ty accurate description of you, Ben."_

_We locked eyes, and Wes and Abigail stared between us, only the former completely in the know. Every couple seconds, the corner of Riley's mouth twitched. _

"_Dad…" Wes finally said. "Did Uncle Ben do anything else other than steal the Declaration of Independence?" _

"_He kidnapped the president, too," he stage-whispered. _

"_That was _you_?!" _

"_Uh, uh…" Riley quickly shot me an apologetic grimace before clapping Wes on the back. "I challenge you to a Monopoly marathon!" And at that, he dashed down the hallway, disappearing from view._

_Wes followed hastily, calendar dropped at his feet. "I call the doggie piece!"_

_Not even bothering to hide her grin, Abigail slipped her arm around my waist and pecked me on the cheek. Suddenly my jacket pocket sank with unnatural weight. "Even after four years, I can't get over how cute they are together," she chuckled. I tried to come up with a response, but the emotions were uneasily translated; instead I grinned._

"_Good luck with your lectures," she continued. "I love you."_

"_I love you, too." Upon our parting kiss, my pocket felt as if it was about to bust at the seams._

Quite abruptly I'm jarred back to the present by impatient foghorns from a fleet of fire trucks at the end of the line. In the setting sun, their strobe lights cast flickering, multi-colored shadows onto the surrounding city buildings. They screamingly imply, get out of the way! Where are we supposed to go—the sidewalks? Must we run down innocent pedestrians so the safety of others can be ensured? The paradox turns my taxed brain upside down.

Even if I wanted to, I can't do anything; I'm stuck in the center lane. Over the tops of distant buildings, I can almost see a faint glow. Is that their destination? Another look into the rearview mirror tells me that they're resorting to a side street to maneuver around this mess. Lucky…

And then my phone rings, as if this day could not get any more bizarre. Lately, my cell phone as been reserved strictly for emergencies, like if someone gets locked out or if Wes and Riley run out of Cookie Crisp.

"Hello?" In the background is a mélange of voices.

"Ben, OK—you picked up," Sadusky says hurriedly. "Here. Talk to Lynch."

OK. That wasn't weird at all. As their phone gets shuffled around noisily, I can pick out Sadusky's distinct tone over the din. I hope they're not trying to accuse me of something, because believe it or not, I haven't done anything.

"Gates, right?" Lynch says at last; he sounds really familiar.

"Yeah…"

There's a pause. "Um, excuse me for asking, but have you ever had a British accent?"

Oh—_now_ I remember Agent Lynch: Mr. Open Book from my days of trying to impersonate "Michael Howe." Yup…he's the bright one.

On the other end, there's more commotion, and one by one his fellow agents, I assume, begin to fight over the phone. Oh boy, here we go…

"What kind of question is that?" Dawes says with frustration coloring her voice. "'Have you ever had a British accent'? That's like asking if I've ever been Chinese!"

"It doesn't matter," sighs Rucker, who I think is the blond. "He just needs to make small talk with Gates while we figure this out." Now they've got my attention. But elaboration's probably at the bottom of their list right now.

"This plan would work out a lot better," she replies. "if we had another person on the squad to help." There's another awkward pause.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I hear Hendrix say. "It's not my fault Carlisle's not here."

"Hendrix!" Dawes snaps. "She's your fiancée and she's seven months pregnant. You better _hope_ it's your fault!"

"This is true."

"Wait—" Rucker says suddenly. "Isn't Gates still on the line?"

Over the couple murmurs of "oops," the phone shuffles back to one person's control. I swear, that squad is rather peculiar when they think no one's looking.

"Sorry, Gates." It's Rucker, and he sounds pretty stressed. "Where are you?"

"Stuck in traffic downtown," I say with a fit of worry bubbling in my chest. "Why?"

"How soon can you get out of it?"

At this, the worry begins to flat-out boil. "With or without collateral damage?"

"Without."

"Not very soon."

Under his breath, he mutters a few mild curses. "I know this will sound odd, but just listen. Leave your car in traffic, get out, and walk over to the metro to go home, all right?"

This isn't making any sense. "But—"

"Gates, please." The line goes dead and sends the worry to magma-like levels. Ever since the events of four years ago, I have hated feeling clueless, but thankfully the sensation hasn't been all that common. Now however I feel the uncertainty, the fear roaring back from its grave, fangs bared. Yet that's all it is—a feeling, a foreshadow. Nothing's certain. It's probably nothing. I'll just follow Rucker's instructions to calm their nerves.

As soon as I get out of the car and make it clear that I'm not coming back, my ears are met with a cacophony of car horns. I bet these people wouldn't be honking at me if they knew I'm acting on FBI orders; the conspiracy still weighs heavily on the mind of the general public. Every so often we have furtive side glances cast our way—some curious, others sympathetic, a few even suspicious.

The metro, for once, is somewhat empty. (They're probably all up in that ridiculous traffic jam.) With nothing else to occupy my brain than the blurring lights lining the concrete tube, the anxiety Rucker and the rest of the squad planted begins to take root and grow faster than kudzu. What could they be "figuring out"? And why would they have to call _me_ about it, unless it involves me? That's it, I'm calling Riley. Thank goodness he rigged my cell to work in subways.

The monotonous ringing does not immediately begin to invade my eardrum; how unusual—

"Hello?"

That was a quick response. "Hey," I say quickly in the pause. "Listen, is there something going on—"

"You've reached the cell phone of Riley Poole. I trust you know what to do from here."

"Dammit, Riley!" I say loudly, snapping the phone shut before the tone could beep. I've forgotten he has that irritating trick voicemail message. Collecting myself after that little outburst, I sweep my gaze across the metro car—the only other occupant is a very elderly lady with a large grocery bag. Her small eyes are wide and wary.

"Sorry," I apologize awkwardly. "My friend, uh…his voicemail on his cell phone makes it seem like he answers, and, um…I really needed to, uh…" Wow. Where are the words going?

"It's quite all right, dear," the lady says, fingers curling tighter around the brown bag.

As the train slows for the next stop, I flail to make another stab at conversation. "I see you've got some Wheat Thins."

She smiles more out of politeness than anything, I suspect. "Oh yes, they're my favorite." The doors open, and then she scurries out. That also wasn't weird at all. Conversations with older women about salty cracker-like food products—isn't that normal?

And now I'm alone with the knowledge that even my most constant, perpetual lifeline and contact is unable to be reached. Since when does Riley recognize the existence of an off switch on anything?

What if something happened to him? What if that's what Sadusky and them are investigating? Before I realize it, I'm up and pacing the fast-moving car; as it careens around a curve, my unsupported body tumbles to the ground.

"Ouch," I murmur to myself. There's definitely going to be a bruise to remember this day.

Needless to say, I attempt to call his cell a few more times, refusing to stand back up and reposition myself in a seat. Although it's probably not all that sanitary, I'm more preoccupied with why Riley won't pick up.

For a change of pace, I dial Abigail—also no answer.

"_Hello, you've reached Abigail Chase—_" I already know it by heart; why listen to it another six times?

The metro whistles from stop to stop, snaking beneath the city, cut off from the real world. Over each bump and jar on the track, simple questions sprout from the planted worry—what? Why? Now?

Eventually my stop is reached, and the station is a ghost town. It's not that surprising seeing as it's the end of the line, though the stillness is much too eerie for my tastes. Isn't there at least one other weary traveler?

Starring up at the staircase to the outside, my fingers absently trace over the keys to my phone once more. Maybe I should call Mom and Dad, see if they know something, _anything_. No…they'll just work themselves into a tizzy—like I am.

The short walk from the station to our driveway seems to stretch for miles, and my hazy thoughts have made hazy visions. Fog isn't common around here in August; and being this far from civilization (as Riley tends to put it), there shouldn't be this white noise, this unidentifiable, low grumble teasing my eardrum. Most likely I'm hearing things.

Wrong: it grows much too loud—and much too hot. Until I rounded that final corner on the driveway, I was never aware that brick could burn.

All movement halted, my eyes drift up this bonfire to the heavens, or perhaps it's a leak in the earth from hell. Twisting around and scathing all it touches, the violent orange tentacles angrily, noisily devour our once-safe haven. I can barely think beyond the waves of heat rolling towards me like an army.

Is this what Sadusky and the agents were calling about? To send me home to _this_?

"Ben!"

The roar of the flames nearly drowns the solitary voice out, but its light carefully etches the figure's silhouette running my way. Still, my feet have grown roots.

"Ben!" He finally reaches me and jostles my shoulder, right as an arm of the fire envelops the last surviving car by the wreckage. In seconds the gasoline explodes into a billowing mushroom cloud, sending shrapnel of gleaming red-coated metal high in the air. The blast illuminates his face, even from behind—lens of his glasses holding a splintering crack, face smeared with soot, hair splotched orange, the dye having been burned off from the heat.

Yet more is being screamed in his eyes than could ever be determined from his physical marks. There's confusion. There's a tad of relief. There's also pure, unadulterated fear. However, while he whispers words of comfort to the boy in his arms his tone buries his own anxieties.

"Riley," I finally choke. "What…?" Pointing as words fail to suffice, I lock gazes with his emotional stare.

"I don't know," he mouths with a shake of the head; the expression his face crumples into sends a bomb to my gut. "Wes, it's OK," he murmurs. "We're safe; see, Uncle Ben's here—he's fine."

Eyes cemented shut against the spectacle, the poor boy's arms remain latched around Riley's neck. He can probably see the flames through his eyelids.

"Have you…" I have to pause, and I take them by the arm and stagger further from the house. "Have you heard from Sadusky?"

Perplexed, he raises an eyebrow ever so slightly. "That you're smelling is the burning silicon chips from my cell phone. So, no." In any other situation, I would have at least grinned—but all good humor is fuel. "Why?"

"He and his old squad called me a while ago," I say. "and told me to go home. Do you think they knew?" I add at the last second, not even needing to clarify.

"If they knew anything, they would have said something," he says simply. I still must look antsy about it because he continues, "Come on, Ben. This is Sadusky we're talking about. He's not like that."

I try as hard as I can through my shell-shocked senses to imbibe the truth of his words. Yet I can't help this nagging presence in my chest that I'm missing something, that this inferno is blotting out the key piece…

"You're right," I sigh finally to his clear relief. Suddenly a thought strikes me. "Have any fire trucks been by here?"

Slowly his eyes gaze at me, then the blaze, and back to me once more, his eyebrow raised. "No…?"

Then where were those in town going?

"That's OK," he sighs, trying to expel all negative tension, a futile attempt if I do say so myself. "All that matters is we all made it out in one piece."

His last statement seems to hang in the air like the clouds of tar-colored smoke around us. Racking my brains takes nearly a thousand times longer than usual as he keeps on talking.

"I mean, how lucky was it that Abigail went to listen to one of your lectures and run errands today?" he says quickly, his composure slipping. No doubt the thoughts of what could have been are—wait.

"Riley," I say carefully. "Abigail's heard those lectures hundreds of times. She didn't go with me."

"I haven't seen her since you left. She's not one to just sit around the house—she had to go somewhere."

"Dad." Although the lone syllable is muffled, we hear it as if it was amplified through a speaker. "When you went to the bathroom before lunch, Aunt Abigail told me she was going to lay down." Wes' eyes, now open, flicker between us as my own dart to the fire.

The frantic panic is slow to take hold. Riley, too, whips toward the burning brick, wood, books, memories—person?

Mechanically I begin to step up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath my feet, while I hear Riley in the background trying to talk to Wes—"Did she come out? Where was she?" My chest has caught a stray spark showering down from the sky, enflaming me with fear and dread. God, no—

"ABIGAIL!"

Setting off at a full sprint, I dash toward the fire, her screamed name getting lost in the raucous crackle. Sweat bursts onto my skin as the temperature rockets, but I don't care. If I can get inside, I can save her, right? This is being faked—if I cant get to a café, maybe she'll show up! History repeats itself, does it not? Isn't that what all my experience shows? Who cares if the hair on my arm is being singed…I need to at least try—

"Ben, stop!"

Suddenly my arm jerks with resistance and my face falls to meet the crunchy, crisp grass poking up from around the rocks. They feel like coals. Why can't I move? I need to get to Abigail; she needs me—just a little further…

"Abigail…" I hear myself choke out.

"Ben," says a voice behind me; it sounds like Riley, and a similar choking sound comes from him as well. Far away on my wrist, I sense someone's grip tighten.

"Riley, let go! I need to get in there!"

"It's too late," he groans, sniffing.

"No!" I shout. "I'm right on time, I'm right on time—"

"If you go any closer, you're going to start cooking," he yells back. "Think! For once I'm asking you to put instinct aside!"

I finally tear my eyes away from the light and stare blindly behind me until my pupils adjust. His gaze, shiny from the tracks under his eyes, reasons with me faster than words ever could.

"I'm sorry," he says simply, hand still secured around my wrist. Shakily he pulls me up, and in the distance I glimpse Wes gawking at us with a cocked head, index finger held between his teeth.

A chasm just ruptured the center of my ribcage and its yawning scream is lost in the crackling behind me.

"Where's Aunt Abigail?" the boy asks hastily as soon as we get back. Riley shakes his head, pulling Wes into an embrace.

"It's all right," he lies.

"Where is she?"

"It's all right," he repeats.

"Why won't you tell me?"

They break apart and stare at their broken faces. Only after eternity passes do the floodgates behind Wes' eyes open—the cry rips me apart. I want to join him, to scream so my voice might be heard and my throat shredded to pieces, anything but have this bomb in my stomach.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch flashes of blue lights; the sound of slamming car doors vaguely registers mentally but we turn around anyway.

"Oh my god…"

The entire squad of agents hangs loosely on their ajar doors, gaping up at the spectacle. Unless I'm mistaken, it was Dawes who spoke, and again she's the first to regain her tongue.

"Rucker," she barks. "Call the office and have them research if these incidences are related!" The blond sprints back to another vehicle, her close in pursuit.

Wait—was that plural? No…I'm hearing things…I hope…

On the far end of the pack of cars stands Sadusky, studiously examining the sight with a hand tracing his jaw and cheek bones. After a moment he sighs deeply and spits, "Holy mackerel."

"If you don't mind me saying, sir," a nervous Michaels says beside him. "I'd say this is more along the lines of 'holy ocean's entire fish population.'" And at that, he dashes back to help his comrades.

I barely notice the senior agent approach us. "We had—" He pauses, words burned away in the heat. Meanwhile his face scrunches into things inexpressible. "We had no idea," he manages. We can't respond, and he knows it, even though he waits to continue. "Is everyone all right?"

Again we remain silent, but the silence is enough to answer his question. His eyes dart with uncharacteristic panic at each of us in turn and back over to the manor, eventually squeezing shut. "Abigail…" he mumbles poignantly. But when he swivels around to face his old squad, any signs of cracks are sealed. "Get back to the office!" he shouts, halting their frenzied efforts in mid-motion. "Or…just…" he sighs. "Go back to your families. Hendrix, make sure Agent Carlisle hasn't gone into labor—"

"Uh, she's not due for another two months," he says feebly.

"I don't care," Sadusky replies curtly. "Stuff happens. Go anyway. And someone go check that Lynch didn't destroy the place being left alone, all right?"

One by one, they slowly lock gazes and nod, heading to their respective cars. They sense whatever vibes we've been omitting.

As soon as the final taillight disappears beyond the hedge, Sadusky's leaks burst forth once more; I can't even see his face, as he doubles over, clutching at his head. Watching the normally composed man's anguish is hard to bear, yet I can't remove my eyes, and neither can Riley. Wes has buried his head in his father's pants leg.

"_Dammit!_" The agent's exclamation echoes even despite the roar of the fire. "I'm sorry," he croaks as he shuffles up to us. "But…"

"But what?" Riley says hurriedly.

"There's been another fire," he murmurs. "Ben…" His face is alight with regret. "Your parents…"

The gorge splits deeper, further, and I'm almost ready to split in half.

"The fire department…" he continues. "They got caught up in traffic…too late…"

Except for the lone cool streaks down my cheeks, I can't feel anything—the world, or at least _my_ world, is burning into unidentifiable ashes and cinders.

"What's going on?" Though still halfway attached to the pants seam, Wes peeks out uncertainly, sniffing a bit.

The agent's pained visage softens as he looks down at the boy, but words are fleeing from the scene at an alarming rate.

"Go with Sadusky for a minute, all right?" Riley mumbles; Wes hesitates but eventually shuffles over to him, wide blue orbs staring up expectantly.

"Do you want a piggy back?" Sadusky says with the closest thing to a smile that he can manage, which still isn't much and isn't returned except in a sigh and a nod. The two head awkwardly over to his lone vehicle down the driveway, leaving Riley and I alone.

"Coincidence, perhaps?" he murmurs, unconvinced. After a moment he lifts his gaze from the gravel to my face. Seven times I count him open his mouth to try and say something, but instead end up stuttering silently. "Oh, Ben…" he finally groans, and soon his arms are flung around me; I return the gesture. Collecting on my shoulders are puddles from his eyes. Still I feel so disconnected.

Can this be real?

Over the top of his black-and-orange speckled head, the fire has taken on the shape of a glaring demon, a smiling, glaring, demon. And in its dull roaring growl of a voice, it's cackling—

"_Of course it's real."_

Suddenly I sense Riley's hand on the lump in my jacket pocket. Without asking, he reaches his hand in and procures the minuscule box. He opens it, and one would think that the Great Flood was upon us once more.

Laying still in his soot-covered hands, the golden band shines while the single diamond sparkles brilliantly with the light that has destroyed its wearer.

XXX

OK…so. Warning: Character deaths. (A little late, but I hate putting warnings like that at the beginning because it gives too much away.)

Ahem…I promise the bulk of this story's not this intense. But hopefully you've found it interesting? Maybe?

**Review and tell me. Berate me for killing off people if you wish. Whatever suits your fancy.**


	2. Chapter 2

Eh…please don't hate me! There is a method to my madness, not every chapter is that intense, and…I can think of a lot of movies I could be quoting right now, but I'll refrain. Thanks a bunch for continuing to chapter 2!

**And if there's anyone out there who, by chance, has **_**not**_** read What Lies Buried, you might want to get on that, for in a couple chapters you will be very confused. **

**Disclaimer: The force is with me, but the rights to National Treasure are not. **

Chapter 2

Somehow the sun still rose the next morning; it's nearly eleven and I'm still staring at the daylight from the apartment window in awe. Below me, people bustle about disrespectfully, cheerful and dressed in bright hues. Shouldn't the world have screeched to a halt, at least for a moment?

A few hours earlier I heard Sadusky ambling around down the hall, indecipherable murmurs echoing through the walls. I should have unraveled myself from the cocoon of sheets to thank him for his indefinite offer of hospitality. I thought I even caught the sounds of banging pots and pans as well: he was cooking breakfast for us, too? How could I have ever considered him to be a bad guy all those years ago?

The velvety black box sits on the windowsill, and I cannot wrench my gaze away as my arms wrap around my torso. The other side of the bed was so cold this morning…

And what about Mom and Dad? Why did it have to be fire, to be consumed in an earthly hell? Inevitability and fate once again rear their ugly heads. As I reluctantly try to pull my brain back to reality, I notice a few shimmering beads of water collected on the box's fuzzy lid; my own cheeks feel moist.

There's a quiet knock on the door. "Ben?"

I don't want to talk to anybody, for I might lose it. Wallowing in my own grief allows much more room for self-control. And I don't want to worry Wes—that's something he doesn't need to see.

"Ben, please."

Distantly I sense gravity slowly pull me into a sitting position and I place my forehead on the wall beneath the sill. I just want some peace!

"Ben, don't do this."

Can't I be alone?

"Ben," he says—the pause was much shorter this time. "You need to talk about it. Please."

Talk about it? I need to talk about it? What the hell is there to say? What satisfaction will assigning abstractions to this suffering bring me? And what can be articulated that he doesn't already know? Yet still the lost cause trumpets its music so out of tune.

"That's it—I'm coming in."

I soon hear his bare feet pad across the hardwood floor, but I don't turn. After he halts, his breathing is the only sound in the room. And even though he's a couple yards back, it's almost as if he's breathing down my neck.

"At least look at me, Ben. You're worrying me."

That last bit drives an arrow in my back that twists and forces my head around. Even more disheveled than usual and with hair still splotched, Riley gazes down at me with obvious overflowing concern.

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

"God, don't say that!" In a heartbeat, he's sitting down across from me, holding my shoulders tightly. "It's _not_ your fault."

"I just didn't mean to worry you, is all."

"If I wasn't worried," he says pointedly, "then something would be wrong with me." For a moment I wonder how he can be so together, but then he sniffles, and I notice the unique coloration in his face, stark pale with a bright pink nose—never the sign of cheer. But otherwise no sign surfaces, Riley playing his regular face.

"So," he says, not even needing to ask the question.

My vocal chords struggle as they heave to propel the words from my throat, and they taste like bile. Forcefully I have to swallow them back down and look away from Riley's expecting gaze.

"_Did Bigfoot take it?"_

"_You're all lunatics!"_

"_I've been doing the math…"_

"…_but you're _my_ lunatic…"_

"_I love you."_

"_You're wrong to _assume_ I'd like the chair!"_

"_What about a year?"_

"_We forgot the paper towels."_

"_So you get your absolute sense of certainty from him—"_

Dad—and Mom—"Ben…""Knife in the heart!"

"_That was all Ben; you had nothing to do with it…"_

"_You can say your goodbyes—"_

"Ben."

Where am I going? I'm going insane, by God, and it's been less than a day. If I placed my hand on my chest, I'm sure it would go straight through to my spine. At the time I couldn't understand why Riley drank so badly after Caroline was killed, but now—

"Ben," he sighs, and it's barely audible. "You're really starting to scare me."

"They're gone forever," I murmur.

I no longer want to think, just exist, to sit here and see without the registering of it all, for my eyes to be blank orbs just for the most infinitesimal second. But I realize that's impossible, and I cast my cruelly functioning gaze to Riley, whose mouth is a straight-lined frown.

"I know." He places a hand on my knee and we sit there for months, the months of years past. Suddenly a window has opened just enough to give a fleeting glimpse into the life he led in the midst of the conspiracy. If this fiery misery isn't hell, then the actual place has no right to exist.

Behind me, the sound of small knuckles on wood reaches my ears. "Hey Dad…" Wes pokes his head around the door. "What's there for breakfast?"

For a moment, there's nothing, but then Riley clears his throat dryly. "Ah…didn't Uncle Sadusky cook something earlier?" In the abrupt switch in subjects, even the bizarre name "Uncle Sadusky" wants to send me into a paroxysm of giggles.

"I thought so," Wes says with a curious frown. "But there wasn't anything there."

"Did you check?" I manage to say, my voice cracking multiple times.

"Ribbit." The boy tries very hard to conceal his grin at my overt confusion. Honestly, I could care less that I'm a bit befuddled, or why Wes felt the urgent need to imitate a frog.

"Does Uncle Sadusky watch a lot of hockey?" he continues, staring off into space briefly. OK, Riley, whatever caffeine concoction you've been feeding your son has got to go. I can't deal with this…

"Uh…no," says Riley.

"Why do you ask?" I add with a croak.

"Ribbit!"

What in the world. "Well…?" I try again as my voice stops freaking out like my chest.

"Not-ribbit!" We take to staring at each other, and in my haze I find it difficult to turn on the ever-effective Ben-stare, making the contest that much longer. "There was just a plate full of hockey pucks in the kitchen where Uncle Sadusky said breakfast was."

"Wes," Riley sighs. "Are you sure those aren't burnt pancakes?"

"Oh no, I'm sure." My mood is lifted the slightest bit in watching his youthful face light up in persistence. "They were hockey pucks."

"Y'know, I'm really, _really_ sure Uncle Sadusky whipped out the Bisquick this morning."

"I know! It's all over the kitchen floor." The boy pauses. "I didn't know you could make hockey pucks out of Bisquick. That must have been a secret recipe on the Food Network. Uncle Sadusky watches that sometimes. I've seen him."

Does he now? That's…a quirk. "Wes," Riley sighs once again. "Just…go watch some TV for a little bit. I need to talk to Uncle Ben, OK?" Eyebrows raised, he shoots him one of those halfway-stern fatherly looks that still seem so alien to his face. Wes wavers for the slightest moment and then shuffles with a bounce out the door.

"What was all that about?" I mutter. My hand runs along my head where a dull muted throbbing is beginning to take hold.

"He had been listening to us—I spotted his feet under the door," he says. "Honestly, I think he was trying to cheer you up, Ben." Cheer me up? The prospects of burnt pancakes are cheerful? Riley must, for a second, be able to read my mind and continues, "Or at least distract you, which he definitely did. Besides, the pancakes are fine." After a bit, he adds, "He even put blueberries in them."

"I'm allergic to blueberries." An awkward silence ensues, and at the same time we cast our glances over to the door. Peeking around its edge are a small pair of blue eyes which vanish upon recognition with echoing, clomping steps.

"See?" Riley says. "He's concerned. And everything was so confusing last night that I'm still not sure he's got a grasp on what's happened." He tries to take a deep breath, but it's caught by his blocked nose. "I don't want to have to remind him, but he can't go on like that forever."

"The funerals are tomorrow," I note.

With a grumbling sigh, his head falls into his hands, and it shakes definitively back and forth. "No…are you suggesting that he should actually go? He's only eight—_eight_, Ben!"

"You can't shield him from this, as much as you want to, as much as _any_ of us want to." Summoning what little strength I have left, I forcefully grab his shoulder and make him meet my gaze. "We've come through this before. We can do it again." Now his nose looks pinker than ever. "Anyways, he's probably already figured it out—more than likely, actually."

"You think?"

"Riley." This time I raise the eyebrow. "He's your son. He's bright."

"That doesn't necessarily mean that he's _completely_ cognizant of the world around him." Apparently Riley has inherited my stubborn gene through some sort of osmosis: he sits before me with his mouth in a sort of subtle pout. "'Cognizant,'" he muses. "That's my big word for the day. 'Til I fall asleep tonight, it's going to be monosyllabics for me…" By the end of his sentence, I'm lucky to even catch a word.

"He realized _something_ happened last night, remember? He cried. And he was there when Sadusky…" Suddenly it feels as if someone shoved a hot brick down my throat to dam up the words. They rise like the waters of Cibola up my esophagus and I'm going to drown for real this time. Abigail and Mom and Dad, in their soaked and soggy garb, have already left me. In my daze I can almost feel Abigail's shaky touch across my cheek once more.

I don't know how long we remain there like that, but Riley eventually places his hand upon my knee. "Abigail would've loved the ring, Ben," he murmurs. "When you were out on a lecture a month or so ago, the subject came up somehow. She said all you had to do was ask, really." He shrugs.

"I don't want the ring," I say abruptly.

"Wh-what? Why wouldn't you—"

"The same reason you didn't keep yours." Our eyes lock, and a small spark of reluctant understanding shines in his.

"Um…Dad?" Again Wes is standing in the door frame.

"What's up, Wes?" Riley says with forced perk.

"Didn't we have that thing at my new school today at noon?" At a second closer look, I see Wes has slapped on his favorite pair of shoes haphazardly, the long white laces trailing all over the green Converses.

Rubbing his forehead, Riley sighs, " Oh…geez. What time is it now?"

"The clock in the kitchen said it was eleven-thirty."

Riley visibly mashes his front teeth over his lip to bite back the string of curse words that were probably on their way. "OK, OK," he says, standing. "Wes, go wait by the door. I'll be there lickety-split, all right?" Hastily the boy nods and dashes down the hall, his laces' ends clicking quietly on the wooden floor.

"Damn," he whispers as he checks himself over in a nearby mirror. "This place is _really _on the edge of town…we'll be lucky to get there on time…do I look disheveled at all?"

Like magnets my eyes were drawn to his orange and black hair, ignoring the rest of his appearance. How could he pass that over in his self-surveying I have no idea. "Riley—"

"Do you have a hat?—oh, nevermind," he mutters, procuring a gray beanie ski cap from the room's dresser. "Please don't just stand there. You're coming too."

"Why—"

He pauses in his stride and flashes a grin that's both incredulous and generally sad toward me. "Do you really think that I'd leave you here alone?"

XXX

We're late—already. With no car left for us to take (Riley's…and Abigail's having been reduced to scrap metal and mine probably being towed) we are forced underground to the metro, one of Riley's biggest pet peeves. I almost hate to say it, but it obvious irritation is wonderfully distracting.

"Why don't we just walk down there and get ready to steal the Declaration again?" he mutters as we wait impatiently for the next train. "Y'know, just for kicks."

"I like kicks," I say lightly.

"Kix is gross," Wes comments. "There's no flavor."

Without a look down, Riley says, "We're not talking about the cereal." He squeezes the boy's hand as he stretches his neck to see beyond to the tunnel. Still no car lights illuminate the darkness. "But Kix is still not the best."

"Why'd you buy it, then, Dad?" He directs his expectant eyes toward his much taller father.

"It was either that or Frosted Flakes."

"I _love_ Frosted Flakes!"

For the brief second following Wes' remark, I wish time could stand still just so I can memorize Riley's flabbergasted expression.

"Why do you hate Frosted Flakes?" the boy asks with a small yank on Riley's pants leg.

"Principle."

My focus being caught up in the silly debate, the screaming halt of the metro car before us takes me off guard, as do the throngs of people pouring out. I see Riley pull Wes closer, murmuring to himself about the lack of purpose for crowds. Despite the mass exodus, the place is still packed and we're forced to stand with hands cemented around the ever-popular pole. A couple times both of us stumble as we round a turn; Riley knocks into many who seem to have a strong desire to break his nose.

I keep my eyes on the signs displayed at each stop to make sure we get off at the right time. Not too far into the ride, we pass by the National Archives station and time begins to fly backwards…

Wouldn't it have been great if Abigail had been on leave that day we met? A little blip in the timeline and she could be sitting complacently at her desk, conferring with Dr. Herbert about an anomaly on the Constitution—alive. Sure, I wouldn't have known her, wouldn't have loved her, but I can't miss what I never had.

I sure as hell can agonize over what I should still have. Stinging seas waver across my bottom eyelids at the thought, and as I force them back down, I notice Wes staring up at me. A grim smile darts onto his face for a moment.

"It's OK, Uncle Ben," he says.

The scene outside the window is a blur: when did we start moving again? I never saw. "Thanks, Wes," I sigh, ruffling his head of messy dark hair. In the process I manage to shoot Riley a significant look. Come on, I try to tell him silently. Can't you see he knows, or that he at least realizes?

"Not now," he sighs.

"What?" Confused, Wes cranes his neck at an uncomfortable angle to look at Riley.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Nothing."

"If it was nothing, then why'd you say something?"

Those are the last words between us until the train finally comes to a halt. Eager to depart quickly, Riley picks Wes up instead of allowing the possibility of separation to have a chance. I walk closely behind them, and Wes, over Riley's shoulder, stares at me with an expression questioning everything—Riley, me, last night…

"I miss Aunt Abigail," he mouths to me, face crumpling into a dolorous frown.

I nod slowly and mouth back, "Me too."

XXX

It's eerily quiet—not silent, really, because of some subtle white noise, but soft enough to suppress any desires of even clearing one's throat. Though on second thought, I guess that's how schools are supposed to be during the summer, but I'd really love more of a distraction than the high whir of a custodian's vacuum cleaner down the hall.

"It's funny," Riley mutters, "how we kill ourselves ten and a half times over to get here when we did, and _they're_ the ones who are running behind." As he says this, he leans forward in the plastic chair outside the classroom so his elbows are perched precariously on his knees. But he doesn't seem upset or frustrated at all, just musing to break the humdrum. Briefly I catch him glancing over at me again. "Y'know?"

"Know what?" I ask.

"You know," he sighs.

"I wish I could read your mind like you can read mine."

"Lucky guesses, really," he chuckles. A large amount of those could easily translate into mind reading, though. "Which, in a way, is like mind reading if you get enough."

"Stop doing that!"

"Doing what?" he says with an unsure grin.

"You know," I sigh. Maybe if I think about mind reading enough he'll get the message.

"Oh, right," he says with a dawn of comprehension, Wes cocking his head in clear confusion. "I get what you're talking about."

"See?"

And just as the realization hits him, the door clicks open, causing us all to jump and gratingly move the chair legs on the freshly-polished floor. The two who walk out pay us little regard.

"So Mrs. Mercer," the younger of them says. "School begins the Monday prior to Labor Day." Despite her short stature, the way she carries herself adds another good foot and a half to her height.

"That's in a couple weeks, isn't it?"

"Yes ma'am. I'll be looking forward to seeing Addie." As Mrs. Mercer walks on down the hall to the exit, the woman inhales deeply and runs a hand through her brown hair, running another finger along her pointed nose.

"Um…hello?" Riley probes carefully, and she turns on her heel—an impressive feat, given the style of shoes.

"Oh, yes," she says. "You're here for…Wesley Poole, correct?" Over the course of the inquiry, her eyes drift to the gray beanie snug on his head.

"That's me," Wes waves from his seat.

"Riley Poole," he says, standing to shake her hand. "And this is my best friend, Ben Gates." For once, the glimmer of recognition is barely perceptible. I nod, forcing a smile.

"Natasha Atherholt," she says with that same confused curiosity coloring her tone. After an awkward pause, she adds, "It's nearly ninety-five degrees outside today. Why are you wearing a hat?"

"Because I want to wear it," he replies, not missing a beat. His fingers twitch with what I assume is the urge to rub his scarred arm; it's exposed, but he never wants to draw attention to it. "Is that a problem?"

"Well," Natasha half-chuckles. "Hats aren't usually allowed in the building."

"Does that really matter if I'm not a student and if school's not even in session?" Amusingly enough, he employs a stare that would rival mine. I'm sure if I wasn't so numb that I'd at least crack a grin.

Realizing the battle is futile, she purses her lips and looks as if she's fighting not to roll her eyes. What a wonderful start we've got here. "OK, then. Let's go in and get Wesley registered."

"Wes," the boy corrects as he hops off his chair. I let him go in front of me before I rise, and Natasha gives me another funny look.

"I'm kind of his guardian, too," I explain, which doesn't seem to help at all. Her eyes narrow suspiciously.

"But it's not just us," Riley tries to explain as well. "There's this other guy—" This time, he's cut off by her very clear weirded-out expression.

"Whatever," she sighs, and we follow her into the room where she sits behind her desk. "So. Wes is how old?"

"I'm eight," he pipes up.

"His old school wasn't really…" Riley says. "It just wasn't challenging him at all, and there wasn't much we could do to help him there."

"Well," she says as she flips through a stack of paperwork. "He seems to have scored exceptionally well on these placement tests." Her eyes rise from the desk. "He could easily fit in with the fifth grade."

Their conversation floats in and out as my focus drifts from one overly-colorful poster to another, looking for something more exciting to keep me occupied. Occasionally I stay on one thing for more than a moment, and it's usually to casually think up some sort of criticism. If there's a child that despises math, is a green plus sign with a face going to change anything? Can anything change anything?

"Just what are you insinuating?" Riley says shortly, forcing me mentally back into the classroom; with a look a the clock, I notice the minute hand has traveled to the opposite side of the face.

"When you're that young, there's a huge difference between eight and ten. It's biology, Mr. Poole. Wes simply may not be mature enough for such a huge leap." I can tell Natasha is biting her commentary back, and I absently wonder what I missed in that half hour that put them, albeit calmly, at each other's throats. "You know how the saying goes," she continues in a lower tone; I guess the urge was too great. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"Excuse me?" Riley mutters back to her, and even from my distance of a couple feet I can feel the flash of temper off his skin. "Do you want to say that one more time?"

"Let's just keep to the matter at hand, shall we?" she says, now completely mellow.

"Look who's talking."

"Riley…" I murmur as I place my hand on his near shoulder. Wes is starting to stare.

"So do you want your son in fifth grade or not, Mr. Poole?" A subtle twitch flickers across her eyebrow.

After a quick OK from Wes, he grumbles an affirmative and rises from his seat, myself following awkwardly. His hand yanks on one side of his cap as he tries to scratch his ear, an air of nervousness surrounding him. Wes bounces over and grabs his hand.

"Hold on…" Natasha sighs curiously; we halt and turn back around. There's definitely a visible frown on Riley's face. "Just how bad is a bad hair day to make you put this on in this heat?" Without warning, her slender fingers reach for the hat and Riley's free arm comes up to block her—right at her eye level in the one's that's marred.

"What happened to your arm?" she mouths in her evident shock, but all she's met with is a cold stare. She does take the opportunity to snatch off the hat. Her eyes grow slightly wider at the sight of the checkerboard of hues, yet I sense no decrease in her hostility.

"You finished?" he says curtly, grabbing it back. He leaves without another word.

"Classes begin the Monday before Labor Day," she tells me in a clipped tone.

"We heard."

Somehow I manage to get turned around in the hallways before I find Riley and Wes in the lobby. The boy is standing patiently while Riley stares at his shoes, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. Already back on his head is the hat.

"Riley?" I venture.

He finally looks up, and he's all frustration and confusion. "Why can't they just leave it alone?"

XXX

See? A whole chapter and nobody died. Like I said, chapter one is arguably the most intense.

**On another completely unrelated side note, the DC metro does have its own special stop for the Archives. I got to run around like a pathetically obsessed fangirl there last spring after a visit to UMD. It **_**was **_**pathetic—"Justin Bartha rode this escalator!" (shakes head)**

**Anyway. Please review! I'll love you forever!**


	3. Chapter 3

OK. Story time. So about twelve-thirty last night, I had a bit of a writing collapse and was about _this_ close (I wish you could see how close my fingers are together) to deleting this story. I was staring at my notebook, pen in hand, and just said no. However, I was able to make a compromise with myself (that sounds sane, doesn't it?). I AM going to continue this, but instead of making a whole other third installment, there's just going to be two epilogues—one for the very abridged last part and one for the actual epilogue. So now I have to rethink the second half of this story. Yippee. This fic was the only survivor: about two holiday-themed oneshots got balled up and thrown out with the fallen pine needles. (sigh)

**Disclaimer: I don't own National Treasure. Can we agree to that? Everyone who wants the chapter to start (finally), raise your hand. **

**PS: I'm making all my disclaimers movie references. Points if you can recognize them!**

Chapter 3

For a place this large, it's much too quiet; even the terse, awkward shifting and stifled coughs are no where to be heard. I wish someone would take the time to audibly clear their throat or accidentally kick the bottom of the pew in front of them while recrossing their legs. But I doubt there's room to try—it's packed, standing room filled to the brim and overflowing into the lobbies and hallways nearby. An organ groans far away and I can't keep my focus off it. The light, too, streaming in from the window—strange hues of green and blue—cast dramatic shadows on my fidgety hands.

What are they saying now? Everyone stands and I follow, but I'm not too sure why. More organ, and people join it. Beside me, Riley holds an old tome in his hands and stares blankly at it, lips unmoving. I guess he senses my gaze because his flickers to me, and then the main floor up front. Then a smile comes, but it disappears. We sit; he drops the book with a fluttering clatter yet no one stares. I want to try and help him steady his fingers so he can retrieve it again. I don't know how. I can't help. I just watch, close and faraway, helpless. Eventually he makes it, gaining a slice of a paper cut in the process. Even he contributes to the silence now.

But then it's not so quiet anymore—a man in robes is standing at one of those fancy lecterns, raising his arms some and saying a few words that I can't understand. The others around me do, though, because they all look at their knees and the ground. I wonder what he's saying that is so interesting about them. Unlike the rest of the crowd, I know what my knees look like, and the carpet's red, so no more new discoveries there. Perhaps there's a penny…no, no need. The caskets are more intriguing than my knees by far. I can look at those any day; this is the last of these polished boxes—and the flowers, for they won't last long—and I want to hug the wood even though it won't hug back. That's not weird, is it? Of course not, maybe, perhaps—of course it is. Before I know it, I'm shaking my head and everyone else has looked back up and fallen silent again. Still they don't stare at me, the nice fellows. I've given them enough reason, I suppose.

Hello. Now the important man is gazing at me expectantly. How curious.

"Ben," Riley hisses with a poke in the knee.

"What?" I hiss back, always sure to keep one eye on the man.

"Aren't you going to go up there?"

"Why would I do that?"

"You said you wanted to do the eulogies, remember?" he tries to say nicely. I hope he's not angry—he doesn't seem like it…maybe it's something else…

"I did?"

"Yes!"

"Is that now?"

"Yes!"

"Mm…all right, then." I rise and walk the short distance up the aisle, squeeze between Abigail and Dad, and place myself beside the man, whom I just remembered is Reverend Tappman. Slowly the fog, or at least some, thins. "Where do I….?" Helpfully he points behind me to the pulpit. As he does so, he stares curiously at my hands. Should I have brought notes or something? Why would I need notes to remember loved ones who were alive this time two days ago?

Finally I clear my throat and I aim it (discreetly) at the provided microphone so the sound echoes and bounces all over the place. From my high vantage point I can see all their faces. Some I know while others are mysteries. Dr. Herbert's skulking around the standing room, Connor is resting dejectedly in the rows, and Dr. Nichols is at the front of the crowd running into the narthex. To me it seems that half the staffs of the Archives and the University of Maryland have packed themselves in. Among those near the front rows are Sadusky and his old squad, led jointly now by Dawes and Rucker if I remember correctly, which is always up to debate. Even Carlisle and her pregnant stomach made it, though Hendrix is absent with Wes on babysitting duty.

"Ahem," I try again, looking over at Riley. He seems unfocused on any one thing. "Abigail…and Mom and Dad…" The words are fleeing in an exodus, a mass diaspora to happier occasions. Why work at a funeral when weddings and births are so much more joyous? "They were…" I had some thoughts last night. "They were…" I grip the wooden edge of the pulpit like it's life support, and I see a bit of concern jump into Riley and Sadusky's eyes. "They were…" Inhaling, I can finally choke out what makes the only bit of sense. "Everything."

XXX

The weather outside is even more unbearable, the humid heat cruelly reminding me of South America, French Guiana, panic, dread, and death—yes, death, how appropriate, really. The dead grass crackles and crunches under the soles of our nice shoes where the dead attempt to rest despite the closeness of the air. As I pass one larger tombstone, I accidentally brush my hand up against it and quickly draw it back. I'm sure I could fry a dead egg on it with ease.

"Ben, over here," Riley mutters, pulling me by the jacket sleeve along with the small group. We fall to the back. "Are you OK?" he continues in the hushed tone. "I know that's a stupid question, but you just don't seem like you're even thirty percent here." As he pauses, we have to sidestep a crumbling marker. "I know you may not want to, but you can talk to me; you know that, don't you?" Instead of replying, I stare at the ground and will it to speak for me. It doesn't work. By now we have arrived at the three burial plots and the group is silently waiting for us to take our proper place nearest the caskets. We ignore them, eventually making them turn back around.

"I hate having to watch you suffer like this," he breathes, and almost to himself.

"What about you?" I mutter.

"I'm like you…" he sighs, "but I've had years of forced practice in the not-so-sacred art of concealing."

Just as he says this, I catch Sadusky shuffling to where we stand. "Ben, Riley," he says solemnly. It's funny—he wasn't like this earlier this morning, idly chatting over stale bagels, trying to pretend life was a semblance of something normal.

"Ben," the agent says quietly with a hand on my shoulder. "I…well…it's going to be all right." Subtly his mustache twitches. "I know you don't believe that now."

"Not really," I agree.

Standing wordlessly, we shift our weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Come talk to me later, OK?" It's all I can do to nod.

Over on the other side of the gathering, the rest of the agents are staring at us, but once Sadusky's gaze is redirected in their direction, they very obviously turn away and chat amongst themselves. Only Dawes risks a look back, and it is completely unreadable. Or maybe I'm just blind.

Seeing that there's no way we're going to stand by the caskets, the presiding pastor begins his spiel. It's just the average bunch of religious send-offs since this guy doesn't even know who we are—he was the only one available. But he seems nice enough as it is, even if Riley did ask him if he was Washington Irving. I didn't really get that, and I didn't really care. I still don't.

And before long, it's over, and everyone begins the slow trudge back to their cars. A stray gust of wind blows the clouds to blot the sun, to be the least bit merciful for the first time in days. "Can we go now, Riley?" I murmur.

"Ben…"

"I can't stand it."

He stares at me, frustrated as well as imploring. "If you can't, who will?" Briefly I break our gaze to look over at the pastor who is awkwardly milling about the grave plots. "Nobody's asking you to like this—God, no. This sucks, OK? A lot. Nobody needs to tell you, or me, or any of us that. But…but are you just going to walk away without a final goodbye—"

"That's not even them!" I exclaim so loudly that Reverend Tappman's head snaps up and the stray crows and squirrels duck and cover. "That's not even them. Caroline"—I point frantically at the adjoining plot—"she's somewhere in Bangkok, and Mom and Dad and A-Abigail…they're just cinders and smoke! Riley, we're _breathing_ them, they're everywhere, and…God! I don't want them in my lungs—I want them _here_, with me, with us! This isn't how it should be!" Absently in my head, a feeble voice tries to tell me to stop yelling at him, but my incoherencies rage on. And he just takes it without any sort of emotion whatsoever. What do I want him to do? Yell back? What? I'm not even mad at him, yet he stands there, silent. Why does he take it? Why do I do it?

"Dammit," I groan, shrugging my coat onto the grass. Without another word I take off sprinting down to the path, dress shoes already wearing blisters into my heel. The wind feels blazingly chilly on my sweaty face, a comfort, but my chest is complaining loudly with each gasp and labored thump of my heart. Behind me, I hear Riley call out something, but it's just noise. Everything is noise.

Eventually the path merges on to the sidewalk by a main avenue. I think my legs know more than my brain where I'm headed. There's feet in the distance. But I just keep running; they'll never catch me, especially if I turn here—

"OOMPH!" Apparently they were closer than I originally anticipated.

And now I find myself pressed to the ground, a bruise forming on the back of my head; as I try to catch my breath, Sadusky does the same, but he doesn't bother to get off me. Instead his forehead rests, relieved, on my heaving chest. Riley finally catches up and stands above us, hands clasped over his face and eyes wide.

The daze wearing off, I glance around for the turn I was so intent on making. No side street exists here: we're on a bridge, and in the water below, there are rocks.

Now Riley looks as if he's really about to lose it, but Sadusky is the one who speaks up. "Don't ever do that again."

XXX

Is there ever a good way to restart a conversation after an incident like that? If so, I'm ignorant, completely ignorant on how to assuage their anxieties. With every furtive peek in the rearview mirror that I receive, I suddenly become a naughty toddler again. I wouldn't be surprised if they turned the child lock on, but I'm not about to test it.

Did it really look as if I was about to throw myself off that bridge? The recently-exhumed guilt meter gains a significant number of notches with this one. After a good amount of time riding in the car, I still can't get myself to believe I was bent on doing that—I mean, I know it happened, but…

"Riley," I say quietly; it's the first word between any of us since I was tackled. He looks at me via the mirror, and it's hauntingly reminiscent of so many remarks exchanged and events experienced yet none specifically come to mind. "I'm…sorry." Still his expression remains unchanged. "For yelling at you, and—"

"Scaring the living hell out of me?"

Sighing, I answer, "Yes. I—" It's as if someone has wrapped a belt around my neck and pulled ten holes too far. What was I going to say? I knew it was something…

"Ben, Riley," Sadusky says from the driver's seat. "I've never really told you about my younger years, have I?" We shake our heads. Silently I wonder if this is what he was referring to back at the burial. "All right then.

"I went to college at University of Virginia, and they have this…_tradition_ that you're supposed to complete before graduation. Well, it was about halfway through second semester my senior year—a very cold night—and I decided to fulfill my duties."

"Do we want to know what these duties were?" Riley asks carefully. That's a good point.

"We had to streak—"

Whether or not it caught me at a strange moment aside, the image and juxtaposition are too much, and my laugh comes out as a snort.

"Ben," Riley chuckles. "Your laugh!"

"What about it?" Out of the corner of my eye, I see a smile creep onto the agent's face.

"It sounded like you were drowning in your own mucus," Riley giggles.

"Oh," I say, hoping that he'll pick up on my sarcasm. "So now a threat of self-inflicted death is hilarious." At this, he physically turns to face me. "I see how it is."

"OK, now, Ben."

"Do I need to make my sarcasm more blatant next time?"

"Please."

All of a sudden, Sadusky clears his throat, and we adjust back to our previous positions. "Anyway. We had to…y'know, all the way up the lawn to the landmark Rotunda, peek in the keyhole, say some ridiculous greeting to the Thomas Jefferson statue—"

"Which was…?" Riley probes.

"Not important," Sadusky waves off. "Can't remember anyhow. And then we had to sprint all the way back. Unfortunately, my roommates had disappeared and hijacked my clothing." Stiffly he shifts in his seat, clearing his throat again; that effectively wards off any pending chortles from either of us. "And to top it all off, it began to snow and my dorm was on the other side of campus."

"That sucks," Riley comments.

"You don't have to tell me that." Some cars in front of us decide to execute some risky maneuvers, thereby generating some ire and expletives from the agent, not to mention an interruption to the story. "Idiots. Anyway, I had just about resigned myself to a slow death by hypothermia and embarrassment when I heard some feet crunching on the frozen grass. So I turned around, and sure enough, there was someone there—a girl."

Riley doesn't even bother to stifle his reaction; I just scratch the back of my head awkwardly. For the life of me, why he's relaying this tale is beyond me, unless it's simply another distraction.

"Yes. Hilarious. I muttered to myself something about dying by _four_ parts embarrassment and only one part hypothermia. Luckily she laughed and gave me the trenchcoat she was wearing. She even walked me all the way back to my dorm…Alexandra Norton. Married her three years later."

That's certainly an original way to meet. But I never realized that the agent had ever been married—he always seemed the type to be more involved with work, unless…

"That's a cute story," says Riley.

"I'm not done yet."

"Oh."

"Alexandra was beautiful: white-blonde hair, green eyes, about my height…she almost resembled Abigail in some respects." As he speaks, his voice begins to carry a wistful hint of nostalgia, all traces of road rage having vanished. Riley and I eye each other discreetly in the rearview mirror, both far from laughing. "Two years after we married, we conceived. She was excited, but definitely nervous. That's the way she always was—equivocal but ultimately optimistic. Unfortunately the optimism was enough, because the childbirth…she didn't make it. And I was in the room for the whole thing." Curled around the steering wheel, the skin on his knuckles stretches white.

"Was the baby OK?" I say quietly.

"Colin…he was…for a few weeks." The silence is suffocating. "Missed his mother too much. I wasn't good enough."

Before I can absorb his words, Riley says, "I'm sure that wasn't the case."

"Not even the doctors could understand what went wrong. So once again, I was alone, and it felt colder than the day I met her." Sighing, he takes a long pause as the vehicle rolls to a stop in another traffic jam. "What I'm trying to say, Ben…" he sighs again, "is I know. It took me a long while to become situated in the Bureau—I was accepted right before all that happened—and to realize family doesn't have to be relatives.

"Besides, you already have an upper hand." At this, he ignores the angry drivers and honking horns before us and swivels his head around. "You've got us."

XXX

I love Sadusky, and his past is up on my list of question marks, right behind Riley's of course.

**Woo. So…No story deletion, always a good thing. And happy holidays, be you Christian, Jewish, or Pastafarian. **

**Reviewing would be really, really nice. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the long wait—life exploded and only just now regrouped. And on a completely unrelated side note, I think my English teacher has an NT problem. We were reading Catch-22 which has the phrase "His name is Mudd" and she asked if anyone knew the story of Samuel Mudd…and understood when I said I'd seen NT too many times after I answered. And just the other day she was all "Some families have themes, like if you're descended from a Confederate general, your family is expected to do great things." Um…**

**Disclaimer: In fact, everything in this fic is copyrighted…And without this notice, it would become copyright infringement, which is frowned upon in most societies. **

**_Chapter 4_**

"You know that I'm only so exciting."

"It's fine, really—"

"And I figured, given the circumstances, that it would be a good idea."

"Do I look mad or some—"

"And so he called and we drove over there and back and here we—"

"Agent Hendrix, stand down."

Thankful, Riley and I briefly glance over at Sadusky and then back at Hendrix, who silenced himself so quickly that he didn't even have enough time to close his mouth. I fight the foreign urge to chuckle, while behind the young agent Wes and his friend Joel do so as well, only less effectively.

"Yes sir," he manages after a moment.

"You don't have to apologize for letting Wes invite someone over," Sadusky says, seemingly stern but definitely hiding a grin. He even waves at the two boys, who return the gesture cheerfully.

"Yes sir."

"Well…" Scanning his apartment, he continues, "It looks as if Mr. Gates and Poole have everything under control. We should be heading back to the office."

Reluctantly Hendrix shuffles over to join him, wearing a not-so-inconspicuous grimace of disappointment. Unless I'm mistaken, it seems as if he's eyeing some of the strewn Lego pieces around his feet, and Sadusky's gaze appears to linger there as well. He doesn't come across as a neat-freak, but I've already been wrong about him once today.

As they leave, Hendrix asking about Lynch having broken their search computer), Riley turns back to the boys on the floor in the sea of colorful blocks. Some creations are only half assembled while the remaining walls and roofs lay in smithereens. Wes and Joel just grin up at us.

"What happened here, fellas?" Riley asks with a hint of trepidation, loosening his tie and shrugging off his coat.

"It's a long story," Wes says after a moment.

"_Really_ long," Joel adds, his curly chestnut hair bouncing.

"It's _so_ long—"

"That it included—"

"ALIENS!" they both shout, and their hands wave frantically beside their heads. Riley and I both jump at least an inch off the ground.

"And they attacked DC," Joel continues loudly.

"And the Smithsonian and the Lincoln Memorial—" As Wes keeps railing off landmarks, his small fingers point out wildly various heaps of plastic bricks: the Washington Monument is a rubble of yellow, while the Jefferson Memorial is a mosaic of every hue. They're all smashed. "—and in the Capitol, the people were like, 'Let's make a law' but then there were ALIENS!" They both continue on the shouts of "aliens" as they make motions to the collapsed structure like lightening is shooting from their fingertips.

It's weird.

"Just where were these aliens from?" Riley ventures, eyes still very wide with who knows what (I don't).

In less than a second the shouting ceases and the boys stare up soberly. "Hendrix's shoe," Joel states.

And then after another second Wes adds, "He tripped."

"He got a nice Spiderman band-aid where his arm got cut," Joel remarks.

"He got cut?" says Wes.

"Yeah, don't you remember? It was on the Archives—"

The rest of their conversation is lost, for I begin to wander aimlessly around the minute living room. Like I expected, there isn't much artwork or decorations lining the walls, and in the bookshelves, there is no room for photos, just thick volume after thick volume, all work related. At one corner, a collection of novels by Joseph Heller, Dan Brown, and Walker Percy are the only ones not caked with dust and that have several cracks in the spines. I dislodge his copy of _The Moviegoer_ absently and my small action sends one of the battered pages fluttering to the floor. But upon reexamination, I find that it's not a page at all, but the lone photo of the bookshelf, faded as it is. I can barely look at it for three seconds before nausea churns and bubble riotously in my gut and makes my eyes sting.

We three widowers, under the same roof, amongst the Lego ocean—what are we supposed to do? Hide memories of a blissful graduation kiss in a dilapidated book, hide memories in the long-lost cavernous hollows of our minds? Or keep them here, to prod us with white-hot pokers? No sense, it makes no sense—

"Do you need a Spiderman band-aid too?" I turn back around to find Joel gazing at me quizzically. Wes wrings his hands very briefly before fiddling with what's left of the White House, Riley helping him now but with an eye on me as well.

"No…" My eyes are stinging still. "Onions. These books smell like onions."

Looking up for a moment longer, Riley says, "Pennsylvania Dutch onions?"

"Saxony German." The boys, or at least Joel, shrug it off, but an older pair of bright blue eyes remains locked on me, screaming a novel's worth over the expanse that my brain translates simply as, "I know."

XXX

Finally it's quiet, save for my slow, deep breaths and the gentle whir of the air conditioning. Each inhale and exhale has me counting to three and I feel myself lingering on the edge of sleep but unable to fall off. There's some light on my face, so that's probably why—I forgot to shut the door to the darkness before I fell down on the bed, empty. Apparently it's near impossible to doze when the insides of your eyelids are a blazing fuchsia-orange.

But I'm not even sure if sleep would be such a wonderful idea, since it's in states like this that bizarre, mind-twisting nightmares beleaguer my senses. Reliving any of the past few days would ask far too much, for the first time was…y'know…

Awful. To put it insultingly lightly.

What would Abigail say? _"Ben…try to relax; you know everything will work out…"_ But this time it didn't.

What would Mom and Dad say? _Mom would probably be along the same lines as Abigail, but more practical. Dad would just sigh, lost for words, and hand me a glass of water and an Ambien or Lunesta pill._

Imagining brings no comfort, so I trace pill-shaped indentations in the stucco ceiling. The variegated lumps are cast into immense relief by the lone rectangle of light.

In, two, three, out, two, three—

It's amazing eight-year-olds can be that insanely energetic until nine o'clock in the evening; poor Sadusky was relegated the task of driving Joel home. Somehow Riley toned Wes down to reasonable levels…they're off somewhere, doing whatever a father and son do at this hour before a forced bedtime. I wouldn't know, and nor do I remember my own. How typical of me, to recall the minutiae of lives centuries over and not those of my own parents. No book has an anthology of those lost conversations.

In, two, three, out, two—hey. Where'd the light go?

Just as I notice this, the other side of the reasonably sizable bed sinks with the added weight. The accompanying sigh identifies the newcomer as Riley, who has assumed the same position as I have: on our backs, head atop our hands. For the longest time we say nothing, and my breathing pattern is seriously disrupted by his irregular sequence.

"I told him," he says finally. "And he already knew."

More nothingness ensues; momentarily I sense his eyes on me as if he's expecting me to say "I told you so." But it's the furthest thing from my tongue. With a dull clunk, the air shuts off, and the vacuum of sound is numbing for those initial seconds.

"Sad about Sadusky, isn't it?" I murmur.

"And we never knew." He pauses. "No wonder he works all the time." And again he pauses. "Well, he kind of has to now, being the head director and all."

"Why can't we change all this?" Thankfully he doesn't flounder to answer me because it just slipped out. It sounded a bit stupid anyway…

"I'd give you a hug," he sighs, "but this is already weird enough as it is." A dying chuckle escapes his lips while I roll my eyes.

"Don't think like that," I say, wondering _how_ he could be at a time like this. "This is just an oversized sofa." Through the semi-darkness I can feel his grim smile of acceptance radiate in the air. "A really oversized sofa," I clarify.

"Of course."

Then there doesn't seem like there's much to say at all, and neither of us make any attempt to fill the void. My gaze drifts to the lone figure on the dresser, a digital clock, to see that it's nine forty-seven; ever since Cibola, the time often has some rendition of forty-seven whenever I check, for reasons unknown. Normally I at least grin, but tonight it receives no acknowledgment. If the president that charged me with that duty is no longer in office, do I still have to bother with it? I hope not. There are more important things than treasure.

Those words wouldn't have come close to even being thought when I was so consumed with the Templar Treasure. And to think that some dispute over that could have forced that gaping rift between Dad and I, and he and Mom before that—all those years wasted because I thought swallowing my pride would make me choke. Has my near-obsession really alienated everyone I know at one point or another?

_Yes_.

Shut up, voice in my head. Nobody asked you.

God, I'm disgusted with myself. But Abigail always came back to me…and other rifts were closed…why? So I could pry them back open again when the chance presented itself?

And Riley: he's still here, beside me even…

"Ben?"

Tearing away from the clock, I glance over at him to find him already staring at me, for who knows how long. "Yeah, Riley?"

"I've been thinking about something for a real long time," he says slowly, gradually tilting his head back to the ceiling.

"What?"

He sighs before answering. "Say you're a magnet for trouble—"

"Like us?" I interject cynically.

"No, no," he says with a clumsy wave of the hand. "Like anybody. Shit of any kind just happens all the time no matter where you are. In this case, do you _cause_ the trouble, or is the trouble specifically searching you out like radar?"

"It still sounds like us," I murmur.

"This is a general hypothetical question," he insists. "And I'm extremely curious." No response is generated as the clock ticks further and further past ten o'clock. "Forget I said anything," he sighs after a while.

As soon as the rest of his air and thoughts are expelled from his lungs, the heavy deadbolt on the door to the apartment lumbers open, and Sadusky's shoes thud across the floor. There too a sigh is heard. I wonder what must be careening through his mind after his spilling this afternoon.

"I guess Sadusky's back," Riley mutters.

"Yeah."

Then the phone rings—an old specimen that chimes like an actual bell—and we follow his steps into the kitchen. They seem laden with fatigue and memory. "Hello," he says. "Hello?" Almost holding our breaths, we wait during the eternal pause. "Eh." With a click, the receiver is replaced and he soon appears as a shadow in the doorway.

"What are you two doing?" he asks, amused.

Riley props his head up to meet his eyes. "Chillin'. Without the 'g.' No one needs it anyway."

"All right then," he says, then continuing cautiously, "How're you feeling, Ben?"

A million words jump up my throat, vying to be selected, but they just choke up my esophagus. I resort to a vague shrug and hand gesture. "I think I'm going to get some water," I mutter once I swallow them all, slowly rising from the bed and shuffling out the door. Behind me, I hear Sadusky talking furtively with Riley.

Just when I reach the twilit kitchen and secure a cup, the phone rings again, and being close to it, I answer—albeit grudgingly. "Hello?" I sigh.

"Hello, Mr. Gates," the voice on the other end says. "Nice to finally talk to you. You are alone, I presume?"

What the hell is this? Despite being relatively good with recognizing people, I can't place this man's voice at all. "Kind of," I reply slowly.

"Try not to say anything too revealing." He pauses, and implications fly at me like a swarm of locusts. "I take it you remember the Peaks of Otter prison in Bedford, Virginia?" Through his thin veneer of friendliness is a smug air that puts me on edge.

"Of course," I mutter bitterly.

"I require your presence there Saturday three weeks from now. You have an appointment to speak with someone."

"I'd rather not, thank you," I say. The mere mentioning of that place—I can't stand it.

"You don't have a choice," he retorts, his façade cracking. "Whether you like it or not, this person _will_ discuss what he wants to with you."

"Who?" I ask before I can stop myself. On the other end, an eerie silence takes hold and I almost think he's hung up.

"Nathaniel Ingram."

I don't realize that I've released my hold on the phone until it clatters raucously on the tile flooring. From the bedroom, Riley and Sadusky call out to check that I'm OK, and I shakily reassure them as I scramble to retrieve it.

"Is it that big of a surprise?" the man taunts. Although I have a few choice words for him, most of my focus is being allocated to my shaking, convulsing fingers that can barely adhere to the phone. "And you should come alone. Is that possible?"

Riley's face flashes before my mind's eye. "Not entirely."

"Well _make_ it possible, Gates," he sighs, pausing once more. When he speaks again, his voice is slowly lathered with sinister intentions. "You're a smart man; create a story. Lie. Deceive. That's old hat for you, isn't it?" I refuse to say anything. "_Isn't it?_"

"Yeah," I admit quietly, eyes cast at my sock-covered feet.

"Good. Oh, and Gates? Don't try and get around this one. You know what we do." A dull thud and the line goes dead; slowly and carefully I drop the phone back in its proper place. Looking up, I catch Riley leaning against the door jamb.

"Who was that?" he asks.

I clear my throat. "Nobody." For the smallest second I mentally urge him to doubt me, to question, to inquire, but said urge fades and he shruggingly accepts my word. Before leaving he takes a quick look at my still-twitching hands but remains silent. Maybe he wants to remark on it, but maybe he also wants to leave me be. Why can't he just spit it out and relieve the sickening, swirling, stormy vortex ravaging in my gut where Abigail and Mom and Dad's absence has ripped everything asunder? For once, Riley, for once in the past few days, ask me what's wrong!

But he doesn't.

That's right, Ben…lie, deceive. You're on your way now.

XXX

**Ah…sorry about the cliffhanger. I'll try to get the next chapter out (and actually work on chapter 6) soon but I have exams coming up. (hides) Anyway.**

**Please review! You know you want to!**


	5. Chapter 5

**OK. (sigh) So before I actually get to the chapter—one I do rather enjoy—I have to be honest. This fic is kicking my butt, and I'm going to have to put this on a temporary hiatus. (ducks behind sturdy wall) Why am I putting this at the beginning, you ask? You'll see when you get to the end. **

**I AM SO SORRY. **

**Chapter note: For once, I get to be historically accurate. (Readers of Dillyn Breeze's fic will recognize what I'm talking about.)**

**Disclaimer: All of this fic's copyrighted activity lies within the disclaimer's scope. **

_**Chapter 5**_

Never before in my life has three weeks flown by so quickly—I blinked once, and I was off the phone, and then I blink again, and that fated Saturday is tomorrow. At least I know one person who is thrilled about the weekend.

Riley and I are mulling about the small yard of Wes' school; even through the brick walls, the scuffle and hurry of the kids to leave is clearly audible. For a long while, I attempt to conjure up an idea for small talk and fail miserably. What a redundant saying—is there any other way to fail? Show me one person who has failed with a smile on his face.

"So what's this you've been mentioning about another treasure?" Riley asks suddenly, but he's cut off by the oncoming flood of dashing students, Wes among them somewhere. Finally as the throng recedes, his shorter head can be seen bobbing along. "Hey Wes!" he greet enthusiastically. "How was school?"

"Fine," the boy says breathlessly. "We talked about Mount Rushmore in history today, and I tried to talk about Cibola, but Ms. Atherholt thought it was too off-topic, which I don't really get." Neither do I, for that matter.

"Did she now?" Riley says.

"Yeah. She said that a couple days ago when Tara said something about the Templar Treasure. Dunno why."

And speak of the devil; somewhat mechanically moving down the stone steps, Natasha seems to be making a beeline straight for us. Riley, I can tell, is thrilled in a not-so-thrilled way. However, she unexpectedly halts a good four yards away. "Mr. Poole, may I speak with you, please?" Her eyebrows rise, implying the subtle order.

Grudgingly Riley complies, but they remain within earshot, at least for me; Wes thankfully is distracted by something or other. "What?"

No answer is immediately supplied. "I figured you out." Pausing, she cracks a fleeting smirk. "You're Riley McLaughlin. I can't believe I didn't make the connection before."

Her sickly-sweet, overly-sincere tone sends Riley's irked frown spiraling into a near scowl, and I too find myself with a twinge of irritation. "Congratulations," he mutters.

Then, steely cold, she adds, "I don't believe a word about that whole conspiracy." Slowly her eyes fall into a glare, trying to see past the dye and surface façade he still insists on constructing, though part of its infrastructure is wobbling. For a moment, I half-expect him to punch her smack in the nose before my reason reprimands my imagination for thinking too out-of-character.

"You know what?" he says, imitating her fake cheer. "Go to hell." He even cracks a smile.

Beside me, having suddenly decided to pay attention, Wes tugs on my pants leg. "Where's that?" I simply shake my head.

Still with her glare, Natasha leans in close and retorts, "I'll see you there." Then she turns on her heel to return to the school. Well that was interesting.

On the way back to rejoin us, Riley is able to shake all his frustration—I can almost spot its visible tendrils cutting loose as he stretches his arms to relax. "Well then," he sighs. "Back to what I was saying before we were so _rudely_ interrupted—"

"By Ms. Atherholt?" Wes asks, Riley nodding. "She's cray-cray."

"What?"

"Crazy."

"Oh," he says, shooting me a confused face. That's certainly a new but of slang. "So Ben, what's this about a treasure?" Like a Christmas display, Wes' face lights up with wonder so great that all he does is stare up with his mouth formed in a large "o." "What's at stake this time?" he jokes.

But I don't laugh—because serious concerns should not be the subject of jokes at all. What's at stake? Hell, it could be nothing, but that's about as likely as Abigail ever coming back. "Nothing," I lie with a hint of a smile, a rare commodity these past few weeks. "Just something to get us out of the house…"

"A distraction."

"Precisely."

"Walk and talk," he says, bending down so Wes can climb on his back. "Is it anything I've heard of before?" We've stopped momentarily by the clunky gate, each of us offering a hand to heave it open, the squeaky thing.

"Doubt it," I gasp as we move onto the sidewalk, "unless the name Thomas Jefferson Beale means anything to you." Honestly, this coincidental find is like a treasure in itself. Could it be any more convenient that there's lore of treasure around Bedford and the Peaks of Otter?

"Nope." He pauses. "But he's got that founding fathers thing going on with his first and middle names, like your family."

Must have been a trend back then, but whatever. "In 1817, Beale and a group of thirty men went west to hunt buffalo and grizzly bears, but along the way they discovered gold in what is suspected to be New Mexico, Arizona, and south-central Colorado. They returned in 1819 and went back once more in 1821 to continue their mining. Of course, they needed a place to put it all, so Beale and his men dug a six-foot hole in sight of"—here I draw a deep breath, prepping for his inevitable reaction—"the Peaks of Otter."

Like I guessed, and involuntary grimace flashes across his face, vanishing before anyone else can detect it. "So this one's nearby? Fun…"

"What's fun?" Wes asks, craning his neck from his position on Riley's back.

"Nothing, Wes," Riley sighs, and Wes then seems disappointed. "Continue; I assume there's more?"

I nod. "To protect the vault's location, Beale composed three codes: the first to tell its location, the second to tell its contents, and the third to name the original thirty men involved. These were left with Robert Morris who ran the Washington Hotel in Lynchburg, a larger city nearby. Two months passed, and Beale contacted Morris to say that those codes are meaningless without the key—"

"Shouldn't that have been obvious?" he interrupts.

"I don't know," I shrug. "Beale also said that if the thirty men hadn't returned by 1832, then he would give the instructions to a friend to mail. No letter ever found its way to Lynchburg, and Morris forgot about the codes until 1845. They proved too difficult for him to crack, but his family friend James Ward later found that the second code is solved using—get this—the Declaration of Independence."

"Typical," he chuckles, and once more we fall silent, his musings slowly inching along his face. Already after only hearing the lore and legend, the gears are whirring, steam hissing, and electricity of thought sparking a true grin, not one of appearances. But it's all a lie: his moments of happiness are built on a lie, deception.

I could tell him that hundreds are currently scouring Bedford for the treasure and have wasted their life savings in the process. I could tell him that not even the most skilled cryptologists have been able to solve the last two codes. I could tell him that a prominent theory in the matter is that the whole thing is a hoax and that Beale's ghost is laughing at us. I could tell him why I'm actually interested in traveling down there. I could tell him what I'm really up to.

But I don't, and he the act of keeping it down is burning. Lie accomplished—where's a trashcan…I can feel my lunch crawling up my throat.

"Are we going on a treasure hunt?" Wes exclaims enthusiastically. "We should go do stuff this weekend. Monday's a holiday!"

How much easier could this get? Now even Wes is doing the grunt work of suggesting. If only this plan would fall apart…

"What is it," Riley thinks aloud, "like a four hour drive down there?" I nod. "That's a pretty plausible long weekend. You up for it, or would you rather wait for some other time?"

The second, please, anything but do this to you! "Sounds like a plan."

XXX

I'm waiting for it to blink. From inside the protective spherical casing, the pupil-like lens stares coldly from its base of the rock face. Like before, the device brings to mind Star Wars, only that thought disappears in the muck of images to follow: the mud and beads among our feet, the eerie foliage in the moonlight, Carl Newman's body sprawled near where I stand now. And again I wonder why the Peaks of Otter have no otters.

Such cute, furry creatures were probably driven away by the monstrosity that has granted me entry.

As I was expecting, someone new (and clearly older) sits at the front-guard desk, obviously bored. He surveys me with a sigh. "Benjamin Gates?"

"Yes, sir." With a glance up at the ceiling, I note how the grill to the air ducts has been fastened with a plentitude of extra security measures.

"All right," he sighs, handing me a badge. "You are to go straight down there; someone will show you." And then at the last second he adds, "Please don't break anybody out this time. I like this job."

Like I'd want Ingram out of prison. At any rate, I give him the warmest smile I can muster and shuffle, sloth-like, to the designated room. How can history repeat itself so exactly? Even the terrifying, looming guard is here, and he glares down at me so fiercely that I'm surprised I haven't turned to mush.

"I'm watchin' you," he says simply, opening the door.

"I don't doubt it," I murmur as I enter. The door slams behind me, and in the window I can catch his squinting eyes plastered on my every move. How comforting. At least if Ingram tries anything, I'll know I have—

"Ah, hello." Tearing away from the other guard, I turn to find the man sitting at one of the booths, clad in orange just as Ian—Charlie, whatever—was. He seems a little too jovial to have been imprisoned for so long. "I wasn't sure if you'd come."

"Ingram," I mutter stiffly as I take my seat. Over the years, he hasn't changed: toothy grin, large chest, scheming eyes, his balding head so sparse that the short stubble's hue is barely discernable. And it's only now that I'm face-to-face with him once more that I serious puff of hate has ever been aroused in my gut. This should have been over long ago—he lost, we won, the end. What else is there?

"Curious…how'd you lose Riley?" Tilting his head and smirking, Ingram stares out of the corner of his eyes with an implied sneer. At my silence he adds, "Ah, Ben, Ben…may I call you Ben?"

"No."

"Well, Ben, incompliance will not be tolerated." How can he do anything about it when he's under closer surveillance than Fort Knox? "Satiate an old prisoner's curiosity. What did you have to tell him?"

Despite my picketing, outcrying reasoning, my mouth mumbles, "Local treasure legend…he's in Lynchburg researching some things…" By now he's probably abandoned the venture to take Wes to that children's museum we passed. But after all Ingram has done, the name Wes Poole is never going to register in his brain.

"I always knew you were the intelligent one," he says. "Now. Down to business. You're wondering why you're here, and most likely here against your better judgment. Is that correct?" When no response is given, he keeps on anyway. "Even if that's so, that particular enlightenment will have to be pushed to the end of our agenda because there are some things that require clarification."

"What do you want, Ingram?" The bomb of anger that was supposed to detonate landed instead beneath the sea of everything, the one of guilt and doubt, and muffled the explosion to an exasperated grumble.

"It's…" he sighs. "Not anything that _I _want." Does he think he's adding to the drama of the moment by pausing like this? "_You _should want it, or at least want to know about it since you left this certain something…and some_one_ I might add…back in the lovely paradise of French Guiana."

Slowly I try to make sense of the blipping scenes obscuring the edges of my vision—thick vines, crowds of soldiers, Ian crumpling, flying knapsacks, insurrection, fear, death, confusion—"Wh-what are you talking about?"

"You don't remember? But you guys went through so much pain trying to retrieve it; what a shameful dishonor to that poor girl's memory…"

Briefly my mind flashes to Abigail, but before her picture can be fully focused, another presents itself, the right one: Caroline. And orange…Ingram's wearing orange…she used to juggle oranges as an anger management strategy before we went to Thailand—

Words, pictures, functioning cease. All I process is a blank canvas of shock, the buzz of static whirring futilely in the background to drown out the inevitable. I'm barely aware of my fingers running roughly across my forehead.

"The orb," I splutter. "We never got the orb back—"

Only a raise of his eyebrows is enough to silence me, and one lone corner of his mouth perks up the slightest bit. "Such a shame that you forgot it…but it's in good hands…which brings me to my second point, here."

My God, if _he's_ saying that it's safe, then all hope is lost. That demonic yellow sphere has too many untapped, unknown properties to reckon with, and now Caroline's death was in vain. They got it even when we tried and I failed to keep it away. Once Riley finds out—if he does—he'll kill me, and brutally.

"You recall when I was arrested, don't you? In late 2008?" he says.

"How can I forget?" Despite my efforts, a smirk slips past the barricade.

"Hilarious. Did you happen to realize that I was the only one caught when I most definitely was not the only one involved? All my subordinates—Rôcher, Vernay, Baker, all of them—walk free, and some are even with the Bureau still, with our dear old pal Peter. Scattered, most of them are…undevoted."

He waits for me to pale but somehow his last words force the panic to ebb. "What's your point?"

"There's one more."

"And?"

"The news won't be very comforting in your current predicament; however, that problem is not mine to fuss over."

Of course. When was I expecting to have things become any easier?

He slowly leans in toward the glass, thin as it is, dividing us, and twitches a sneer. "Chester Burr lives."

Suddenly the back of my skull sears with pain, as does my knee, and once my vision clears I note how my leg is twisted oddly around my chair and how I am staring up at the fluorescent lighting. "Gah…"

"I'm not sure I caught that, Ben. Would you like to demonstrate again?" Ingram chuckles, leaning as far over the counter as he can to see me sprawled across the carpet. So I had a panic attack—it's not funny. Nothing about this is funny.

"I…" I say as I resituate myself back in the seat. "I saw him die in Guiana; the soldiers attacked him, he wasn't moving—"

"That's because he was badly injured, but he certainly was not dead," he spits. "Burr alone has remained faultlessly loyal to the cause and _continues_ to do my bidding." Glaring, he pauses. "That should scare you."

Without realizing it, my grip on the counter closes even more tightly. "It does." I'm not even looking at him any longer. But what can he expect when he's just relayed that our own personal boogeyman is still lurking in the shadows and eaves of our lives? And we had been thinking all was well.

"Now for my favor…" he sighs contentedly.

"Excuse me?" He can't be serious.

"Ah, ah, ah, Ben. You don't want to come home to another dead friend, do you?"

And my resolve had been so controlled until now, now when moisture is welling up and my fists are clenching themselves sore. It's so unnecessary to bring that up, even if he does know, which he shouldn't. "Shut up!"

"Ben."

"Stop!"

"I know how you must be feeling—"

"Don't pull the empathy card on me," I spit, feeling my face redden. "Just tell me what you want to tell me and let me get on my damn way!"

Like he has a migraine, he rubs the corners of his eyes in slow circular motions—perhaps if it's not an actual headache, the process of sifting through his thoughts is enough to induce pain.

Good. He deserves it.

"All right, then, Ben," Ingram begins. "Burr is great and all, but he, as well as I, can only do so much by ourselves. That's where you come in." Hold on now—"Upon your return to your vehicle, you will find an envelope with the names and addresses of all my former agents, plus further instructions. You'll be informing them that the operation is still a go."

"Operation…?" Before my eyes flash more snapshots of the bleak halls of Area 51, the surrounding desert, and French Guiana. This doesn't make any sense. "That operation ended when you were exposed, in case you forgot."

And he actually laughs at me. "The unpaid World War I debts? Money…heh…it's just a big green cover for any idea like this. The central argument may consist of numbers and dollar signs, but there's always something more. It's never about the money—shouldn't you know that, of all people?"

So we're been seriously deluded about the conspiracy even still? Holy…this is derailing my senses so I can't think straight. "So then…I don't…?"

"You're not meant to understand," Ingram sighs with an air of impatience. "That's the point. And you're _going_ to help."

Greetings to the arrow of dread. "What if I don't?"

We commence to staring at each other, and his eyes steel over with a dark chill that shines from the depths of his pupils. "Wouldn't it be awful to be alone in the world?" When I don't immediately reply, he continues, "Riley will never know the difference, unless you refuse." Now he decides to wait.

My hands start to shake, but to combat it, I inhale deeply and weigh my options like Sadusky taught me so long ago…door number one: I could refuse to be Ingram's accomplice and feel great about myself until they kill him. And door number two: I could agree, save Riley's life, but…

But I could be destroying everything that's making these lives stand tall—trust, reliance, the lines of bondage tied between us. Never before in my history of decisions have the options been so awful.

What's the lesser of two evils, death or betrayal?

"I'm waiting," he sings tauntingly, and I finally face him. Where did this turn so wrong?

XXX

**Yeah, it's a cliffhanger. Would you really have wanted me to say, "Oh by the way, hiatus!" right now? Eh… Anyway, considering the story's supposed to continue, you can probably guess which option Ben chooses…**

**I believe my writer's block stems from the fact that I've dealt solely with these characters for over a year and I just need a break. You'll definitely see some random oneshots pop up, one per random fandom. And once NT calls me back, I'll go. And it will—Riley's a jealous little boy with a very long lasso. **

**Please review. (sigh)**


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